Pteridomaniac

How I grub in the damp woods.

Trowel in one hand—

in the other, pocketbook of fronds.

Moonwort, bracken, broad buckler,

little adder’s-tongue.

I tramp across meadow and hill and glen,

fingers combing gully and hedge bank.

Though I take only sparingly,

my cord’s ready for bundling.

My satchel’s lined with moss.

Brittle bladder fern, forked spleenwort.

How I bend for

rust-colored scales,

for the lemon scent of a native species.

How I crawl.

I reach into the crevice’s black heart

to finger a stalk.

Hard fern,

filmy fern,

lady fern.

Why shouldn’t my shoes be ooze-caked,

earth smeared on my cheeks?

I’ve slipped down muddy banks

and sidestepped along waterfalls,

my bonnet lost

chasing a ravine’s glint of evergreen.

Rue-leaved spleenwort,

tatting.

Magnifying glass clasped to my eye, I read cruciate forms,

tasseled tips, bipinnate leaves.

I classify—

serrated edges pressed to my tongue.

Bristle fern, holly fern, true maidenhair,

Woodsia.

How I multiply,

blowing clusters

of cinnamon spores

from the fronds’ undersides.

(Far better use of a specimen than pressing it in a tight

little book and calling it mine.)

soft prickly shield.

How I shiver in this wet dress,

the air sharp

with rain worms

and rotting stumps.

Yes, how I shine.